


Sex and Candy

by Rabid1st



Series: Counting the Hours [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek and Stiles are Mates, Dubious Consent, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ratings: R, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is having the best day of his life. Unfortunately, angst and pain keep intruding on his fun. Is Stiles with him or calling his name from a distance? Why does he keep having jabs of pain and blackouts? Only time will tell. This fic is complete, but the events will run into the next part of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex and Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Taken as part of the series, I don't find this involves dubious consent from anyone. But it did trigger a reader, so be warned rather than excited. I don't tend to view my work as too kinky, since that is never my intention. However, this story has some helplessness in it and some forced bonding.

**Title:** Sex  & Candy  
 **Author:** Rabid1st  
 **Rating:** Mature  
 **Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Derek/Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski, Lydia Martin  
 **Warning(s):** Trauma, Sexual Situations  
 **Spoiler(s):** None. Set in an AU version of 3b  
 **Word Count:** 8900  
 **Beta Babes:** Elsecarlass and Birthsister  
 **Summary:** Derek is severely injured and needs some loving care. Will he retreat into himself or will he turn to his bond mate for comfort? And what about Stiles? Why is he suddenly rejecting Derek's advances? Fluff/Angst, Hurt/Comfort and some romantic smut.  
 **Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf and these characters are not mine. This fic represents fair use for fan purposes. 

Derek Hale had never laughed so much in his entire life. His face hurt, skin stretched to the point of stinging, and he could barely catch his breath. Tooling along the Pacific Coastal Highway in a vintage mustang convertible, top down and radio blaring, was Derek's idea of the perfect way to start a day. When the agenda ahead contained nothing but surfing and driving, with Stiles riding shotgun in the passenger's seat, perfect got upgraded to heavenly. Stiles had just finished another story detailing the tragic history of his many attempts to get laid. 

His virginal mojo took on all comers and he consistently emerged intact. Derek smirked at the suggestive, if inaccurate, word play Stiles kept using. Despite numerous opportunities to score, Stiles had never managed to complete a hook up with anyone of any gender. But he'd mined comic gold from every botched attempt. Derek might never recover from the images Stiles had implanted in his brain of incompetent seduction. He could barely look at him without envisioning one of the dates. Though, on some level, the visions made him absurdly happy. Despite the awkwardness it caused, he was glad Stiles wasn't ahead of him on man-to-man experience. Derek could just about manage to do this as a joint project. 

Sex & Candy came on the radio and Derek was reminded of the only homosexual encounter he'd had before bonding to Stiles.

“One time in college, I was at this party,” he shouted, deciding to share the story. “Bored out of my mind. Everyone else was wasted. And, you know, werewolf is designated driver?” 

Stiles grinned, nodding his understanding. He playfully poked Derek in the arm. It hurt. Derek winced and glanced down, wondering if he had a hidden injury. But everything looked fine. For a moment, the world seemed to drop away into an icy pit of confusion. It crushed the air from his lungs.

_Derek? Can you hear me? Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, Please._

“Yeah, so?” Stiles said, prompting him. 

The sun came out again. Derek took a deep breath. He'd been telling a story. “This drunken frat boy wanted to blow me. So, I figure, why not?”

“Hell, yeah,” Stiles said, like it was the obvious choice.

Derek smiled slightly, giving a tiny shrug of agreement. “While we were in the bathroom, this song comes on.” He waved a hand at the radio. “And...I was standing there, still bored, just not getting anything out of it. All I kept thinking, while this poor guy is doing his best sucking, was how you people can't smell sex or candy. Both really great scents, but totally lost on you. Anyway, next day he was completely freaked out. So, I pretended not to remember it.”

“You know what that reminds me of?” Stiles yelled back at him, looking less than amused. Derek quirked an eyebrow at him and shook his head. “This one time at camp, when I was about twelve or thirteen?”

Derek pressed his lips together. He knew, because Stiles had told him, that when his mouth turned down at the corners he looked like a grumpy cat of some sort, but he didn't care. He didn't want to hear this. Still, he gave a tight little nod of encouragement. And Stiles continued his story.

“I was in this cabin with four older boys. Totally outclassed. Fearing the wedgie or a spider in my bunk. Getting pushed around every day. But one of the guys was super hot. That’s the first time I really noticed a guy. I mean I’d noticed them before, but this is the first time I wanted to get up in that. And...well, I guess I don't have to tell you what happened---” He cast Derek an arched look, stretching out the pause for dramatic effect. 

Derek took the bait, lifting both brows in a look that asked anyway.

“Nothing,” Stiles exclaimed, throwing a hand into the air. “The same thing that continues to happen to me to this day. No sex. No blow job. Absolutely nothing. Oh, wait, no! I got chiggers.”

“Stop it,” Derek said, around a snort. “Seriously, I’m going to drive us off a cliff.”

He gently cuffed Stiles on the side of his head. Stiles caught Derek’s wrist. Drawing the hand to his lips, he kissed the knuckles. The gesture was so out of character, Derek blinked in surprise. The blink burned. All he could see was a watery blur. Bright light jolted his retinas. He couldn’t find the road through the haze. The jab of pain hit again. It was far more localized, this time, slicing up through the veins in his right arm. The car swerved when he jerked back from this new agony. He drew his hand away from Stiles so he could wipe his eyes. For a second, he felt a blindfold of cloth under his fingers.

“You stand no chance of battlement penetration,” Stiles was saying when Derek snapped back into reality.

Completely shaken by his blackout, Derek looked around, confused. Stiles ignored his odd behavior. Nothing had changed. They hadn’t swerved into oncoming traffic. He still drove the vintage car along the highway, sun shining, Stiles smiling. It was their surfing trip. But he’d lost the thread of the conversation.

“What?” 

“I said feel free to take your best shot, buddy. You will not be getting sex on the beach. Probably the earth will be hit by a meteor, if you round second.”

“Do you know where we are going?”

“So you know,” Stiles said, as if Derek hadn’t asked him a question. “I'm okay coming back from this trip a virgin...but I better not come back with fleas.”

After that pronouncement, Stiles gave up on storytelling and spent a few minutes searching his backpack for something. Derek heard a crinkle of plastic. The scent of artificial watermelon teased past his nose. Stiles had unwrapped a Jolly Rancher. He shot Derek a devilish smirk, before popping the candy into his mouth. As Stiles slouched down in his seat, Derek felt his own tension bleeding away. He relaxed, tuning in to Stiles’ heartbeat. Derek had been fascinated by an article he’d once read, explaining how ordinary humans were soothed by a life-partner’s voice and could pick it out from others in a crowd. His kind had distinct vocalizations. But he related the article to their affinity for a mate’s heartbeat. Derek could feel Stiles pulsing around him, the rhythm steady in the seat under him and the steering wheel in his hands. Stiles turned the sweet with his tongue, gently sucking. From the corner of his eye, Derek could see the rectangular shape between parted lips; hear it clicking against Stiles’ teeth as he moved it around his mouth. Derek lost focus on the road again, but not because of blurring vision. His brain was scrambling to compensate for a sudden drop in nutrients as his blood flow reversed direction.

A sweet scent of satisfaction wafted from Stiles, who was fully aware of the affect he was having. It would be hard to miss the activity in Derek's loose shorts. But, Stiles feigned innocence as he traced the tips of two fingers along his own lower lip. And Derek groaned softly. God, he loved that mouth. Loved kissing it. Loved it sucking on anything, taking in any part of him. If Derek got any harder, he'd have to pull off the road and take care of it. Stiles grinned, but didn’t comment. Instead, apparently finished teasing, he closed his eyes and pointed his face at the sky. Knees splayed, he slouched in his seat and did his usual A.D.D. bump and grind. Derek knew there was no seductive intent behind the hip twitching. Stiles had focused inward while he soaked up the sun, but he couldn't keep still. Head back and humming along with the radio, he stretched both arms wide. One rested along the side of the car, the other draped to the driver's seat. His lax fingers brushed the bare skin on Derek's shoulder. Derek turned as much attention as he could spare to thinking about dental surgery. He could almost smell the antiseptic.

 _Who's that lounging in my chair? Who's that casting devious stares in my direction?_

*******************************************************************

The ocean worried Derek. Steel blue and menacing, it had an ominous chill about it. Cold wind squalled off of it, buffeting them, tugging at their clothing and hair. Stiles didn't seem to be suffering. But Derek's hackles rose. Though the sun baked them on the rocky beach, it didn't seem to be warming the water. Derek stood with his toes in the surf edge, clutching the Sheriff's red board. He shivered, teeth chattering. 

“Maybe we should wait a few months,” he said, on a gasp as a wave caught him high on the legs, “for warmer weather.”

“We came all this way,” Stiles told him. “And the waves are perfect for teaching you.”

_Derek?_

He whipped his head around to glance behind him, certain someone had called his name. There were only a few other people on the beach, most of them far away and absorbed in their own fun. A group of gulls wheeled overhead. Maybe that was all it had been the screech of a gull on the wind. 

“You aren't backing out, are you? It's not that cold.”

“This just...doesn't seem like a good idea.”

“Come on, Derek,” Stiles said, “What are you afraid of? Drowning? Sharks?”

“Sharks?” Derek snorted. He brought out the claws on one hand. “Please!”

“Oh, you can take Jaws, huh?” Stiles said, beaming at him even as he mocked. “In his element? Super Wolf vs The Great White. Yeah, baby. SciFi channel is on the phone for you. What's your position on saltwater crocs and killer whales?”

“They have killer whales here?”

“In the Pacific? Yeah.” Stiles gave the affirmative his classic “Duh, you moron” pitch.

“At this beach,” Derek growled, tossing the tone straight back at him. “Have they been sighted near here? I don't know if I could take a pack of killer whales. They would have territorial advantage.”

“Good news is they never hunt people.”

“Bad news is they might hunt werewolf?”

“Do you see any scary fins out there?” Stiles said, sweeping his arm in a great arc to indicate the expanse of water.

“No. But they could be lurking. I feel something lurking.”

“Plenty of fish in the sea, Derek. Are you coming in, too?”

“Yeah, I'm coming,” he said, following Stiles into the frigid waves. 

He attacked the surf, running into it with his teeth bared. Cold water splashed up his torso. His shiver became a shudder as he coasted, belly down on the board. But the sea warmed up as he worked his muscles. They paddled out against the breaking waves and found a spot to practice. Before long Derek lost himself in the lessons. Stiles taught with enthusiasm and lots of encouraging touches, little treats for the wolfish side of Derek. The physical aspects of the sport combined with the ocean's unpredictable nature suited Derek's temperament. He began to feel invigorated. Stiles had been right about how much fun surfing was and how easily Derek would master it. His supernaturally enhanced center of gravity gave him excellent balance on the board. In less than an hour, he was tackling small waves. Two more hours saw him riding a three-foot curl without being tossed into the air. 

But by that time the tide had turned and the surf had started rising. Stiles called off the practice. 

“You'll be better than me in a few weeks,” he said, aglow with pride. 

“Why don't you take a few bigger ones?” Derek told him, nodding at the line of fierce breakers. “I can wait here.”

“It's not a good idea to surf alone,” Stiles said, but he cast a longing glance at the lovely crests forming a little further out. 

“You aren't alone,” Derek reminded him. 

“So, if I disappear under the waves, you'll rescue me?”

“I'm thinking of drowning you just for the CPR experience.”

“Killer whales?”

“I'll tell your dad you died happy.”

“Good to know you've set priorities,” Stiles called, paddling away in search of a great wave.

Derek dropped his fingers into the water while he focused on Stiles. It took a few seconds for him to find the heartbeat, a familiar pulse. He teased it out from a thousand similar vibrations, the sea life and the roar of surf. The ocean stirred up ozone like a thunderstorm, playing havoc with his sense of smell. But, he wouldn't lose Stiles under the water. Not as long as he stayed close and his heart kept beating. A sharp barb jabbed Derek's hand. He yanked it out of the water and nearly shifted. For a second the sun reflected off the waves, blinding him with white light. He squeezed his weeping eyes shut, cradling his throbbing hand against his chest. A wave caught him unaware and he went under with it. The icy water roiled around him. Coral and rocks cut into his skin. Blinded. Disoriented. Unable to catch his breath. He felt darkness swallowing him down and down.  
 _  
Derek? Can you open your eyes?_

Of course, he could. He opened them just in time to see Stiles catch a ten foot crest. Derek was still on the board. He searched the horizon for the treacherous wave that had unseated him. But there was no sign of it. And then, there was Stiles on his feet, on a massive crest. Derek sat mesmerized, a goofy smile on his face, all pain forgotten, as Stiles demonstrated his skill. He made shredding look easy. He took a minor wave next, but it swelled and ran long. Derek wondered how he chose the ride. Another monster followed, larger than the first one. Stiles worked his board back and forth with an expert's finesse. He vanished under an eight footer's curl, but came out of the foam still on the board. Then, he let a smaller wave carry him toward shore. Derek met him as the crest died out and Stiles dropped to his belly. He was breathing heavy, but shimmering with the joy of showing off his prowess.

“Oh, my, God, Derek,” Stiles said. “Did you see that third one?”

“I saw.”

_Oh, my God! Derek?_

_Third degree on his arm. His face? It's bad. He protected his eyes, but I'm sorry, honey. It's not good news._

_He can get better. He's going to get better._

“What did you say?” Derek asked.

“Sunburn,” Stiles said. “You are extra crispy.”

“Burned? I'm f-fr-freezing,” Derek said. 

He was shivering, again, head hanging low, like a dog caught in a thunderstorm. Without thinking, he'd moved closer to Stiles, one knee bumping against his board. Noting his distress, Stiles fastened a strap around his own ankle and belly flopped across to Derek's board. They nearly capsized, but managed to balance their weight so they were both facing the shore. 

“Put your feet up,” Stiles said. “I'll paddle us in and we will start a fire.”

Before he started for shore, Stiles ran a hand along Derek's arm. 

“Does this hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“You've gone numb,” Stiles said. When Derek didn't respond, he turned serious. “Next time we bring the wet suits.”

****************************************************************

Back on the beach, Stiles slathered aloe gel down Derek's back and arms. Derek kept shivering as Stiles wrapped him in their towels and a blanket, but when Stiles added his own body heat, Derek began to feel better. Huddling together for warmth was very wolfish. They sat quietly, stoking up the flames on a fire. Derek traced the path of sparks as they rose into the sky to vanish. He renamed a few constellations. Somewhere in the distance a radio was playing. It was Sex and Candy again. Derek frowned over the coincidence, but dismissed it as a weekend promotion of some kind. 

His eyelids drooped and his head lolled onto Stiles' shoulder. Lovely long fingers stroked through his hair. Derek figured Stiles must have been reading up on werewolves, to have so many talents for soothing them. Working around Derek's attempts to snuggle closer, Stiles roasted skewered strips of steak over the flames. He didn't complain, but seeing the difficulty and danger of their tandem cooking, Derek relaxed onto an elbow. Stiles moved away, but only slightly. He maintained some body contact. And he offered Derek a choice bit of rare meat, just warmed by the flames. Provide food, Derek thought, page one in basic werewolf seduction. Succulent juices, running down Stiles' fingers and across his palm, added to the erotic ambiance. Derek didn't need any encouragement to send his tongue after the droplets. He hummed in contentment.

“You like that, huh? What is it with werewolves and oral fixation?”

“The bite,” Derek said. “It's how we procreate.”

“There's a great word,” Stiles said. He dangled a strip of steak over his own mouth. The meat dripped grease onto his lips, while he took a moment to savor all three syllables, “Procreate.”

“Ate,” Derek said, snapping his teeth together on the T. Trying not to focus too much on those lips, he considered the mouth-satisfying sound of -ate words as he watched Stiles chew. He loosened his blankets a little, holding Stiles' gaze as he said, “Satiate. Salivate.”

“Copulate,” Stiles suggested.

“Insinuate,” Derek said, fighting down a grin.

“Invigorate. Elongate. Stimulate.”

“Eviscerate.”

Stiles leaned close enough to send hot breath past Derek's ear as he contributed, “Ejaculate.”

“Capitulate,” Derek said, ready to admit Stiles was better at the game.

“Mate.”

Derek laughed, collapsing backward and pulling Stiles down on top of him. “Checkmate,” he sighed, ruffling a hand through Stiles' hair, before tipping him into the crook of one arm. 

Stiles cuddled closer, resting his head on Derek's chest. As they lay together, watching the stars wheel overhead, Derek struggled to hold on to his contentment. Horrific images flashed on his eyelids every time he blinked. He began to feel increasingly feverish. His attention kept drifting to the crackle and heat from the fire. He looked over at it and saw his arm had fallen into it. He was burning, skin stretching and breaking as it blackened. He didn't know what to do about it. He didn't want to make a fuss and upset Stiles.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Stiles asked.

“Becoming another stupid story about why you'll never have sex,” Derek said.

“We are having sex,” Stiles told him and Derek noticed it for the first time. 

God, how could he have tuned out so completely? He lay on top of Stiles, skin to skin, inside him and so hot from the contact that he couldn't breathe. Derek looked at his hands, expecting blisters, but they seemed perfectly fine. His fingers slid over Stiles, seeking purchase in sweat that sizzled. Stiles started burning, glowing from within like smoldering coals, and Derek couldn't take the heat. He rolled away, gasping. 

“What's wrong?” Stiles asked, turning to his side so they were nose to nose. He was fully dressed again. So was Derek.

“What's happening to me?”

“Is it your sunburn?”

“It really hurts, Stiles,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice in the plaintive whimper.

“I know, baby. Hold on.”

The sun came up again. They had no fire. No meat. No blankets. Stiles cursed as he searched frantically for lotion. Tossing things aside, he plundered his backpack. The sand around Derek was littered with thrown items, some of them melted and incongruous, like a painting by Dali. A carelessly heaved hair brush skidded over Derek's chest, raking gouges in his flesh. Agony swept through him. Fiery worms burrowed up out of his skin, rising into the air like tiny Chinese dragons. He blacked out for a second and woke to Kate Argent holding his hand. Derek panted through the pain, relaxing as much as he could. Night had fallen. But there were no stars. What was happening to the sky? The beach had no sand, just white on white tile. And that frat boy was still sucking on him. Would it never end? Kate laughed like he'd spoken out loud.

"You are such an easy target," she said.

Where was Stiles? Why wasn't it Stiles on his knees in the bathroom? Stiles should be holding his hand. Had Derek lost him in the ocean? He found the heartbeat, just before panic sent him searching. The steady pulse soothed him. Stiles. Stiles. Stiles. God. Derek tried to find his scent, but he couldn't smell anything but roasting meat. Time swept past like surf crashing into the shore. The sparks from the fire, danced above them, blue and red, red and blue. Bars of white light flickered by like he was watching a train go past at a crossing. And that stupid song was playing, through a curtain of static as he gazed out the bathroom window.

_Hanging out, downtown by myself. Yeah, Mama, this surely is a dream. Dig it? Yeah, Mama this must be a dream._

Women and children and sea birds screeched, but the piercing sound came out of his mouth. In the house, his family burned, their screams like sirens. Flames crackled, too hot. He couldn't reach them. Save anyone. He kept rushing toward the blaze, falling back from the heat. The sea was on fire. And the sky. Flames engulfed him. The roar rose to an ear-splitting crescendo as the endlessly repeating song faded into a blare of static. The roar was his own, he tasted blood as it ripped open his throat and he swallowed fire. A madman in a lab coat kept asking him questions. Derek wanted to run, hide from the assault on his ears and mind and flesh. He heard Stiles calling for help. Was he drowning? Derek couldn't find him in the middle of the cold sea. There had to be a heartbeat. But all he could hear was the surf. It was only him and the ocean, now, no beach, no car, no fire. The water rose higher. Tsunami waves circled him like fins. He couldn't move. Someone was holding him down. They had tied him to his surfboard. He lashed out, teeth snapping together. 

“Careful,” Someone said. “Derek, you need to stay still.”

“Derek? Calm down.”

Stiles. Stiles was here, holding his hand, and so terrified. Derek could hear the fear in his voice. It made Derek afraid, too. He forced his eyes open and saw white gauze. The air stank of burned flesh and medicinal chemicals and blood. Realty smacked him with a fistful of razor blades, cutting him to ribbons, like the surf dragging him over rocks and coral. He groaned, every muscle taut, but he didn't scream. He couldn't scream anymore. His throat felt raw. Blood coated his tongue. He'd lost Stiles. And Kate. And everyone else. The hand was gone. And he needed it to anchor him. He needed Stiles to hold on to reality for him. He tore off the bandaging around his eyes and looked at the room. Hospital, his mind said, but he still didn't understand. His gaze went to Stiles at the door, calling out into the hallway.

“Someone, anyone? We need help,” he yelled. 

A stout dark-skinned woman, dressed in blue pants and a smock covered with smiling suns, hustled into the room. Herded along by Stiles she came around the bed with speed, but stopped at a cautious distance. 

“You don't let him bite me,” she said.

“He won't,” Stiles assured her. Then, he took Derek's hand again. “Derek? Try to relax. Okay?”

“Can he see you? I think he can see you. What's wrong with his eyes?”

Derek's gaze flickered away from Stiles to stare at the woman. Of course, he could see them. He tried to tell them so, but his lips and tongue were gone. And his throat felt desiccated. He fought down his panic, using calming techniques he'd learned as a child. His secondary lens had developed, which meant he was shifting into wolf form. Why was he in a hospital? The pack knew better than to bring him here. His mother would have... He checked this line of thought, his mother was long dead. Scott should have intervened. 

“It's a genetic mutation,” Stiles said. “It means he’s in too much pain.”

“Those bandages need to be reapplied. Whatever they did to this boy, it should be reported to Congress.”

“Look. Just give him the drugs.”

“I already gave him enough to kill him twice. I need to notify the on-call doctor.”

“There's no time. His doctor okayed it. Look.” Derek heard a rattling of papers. Stiles handing over a chart, perhaps. Why couldn't he see that? Everything was going dark again. Why couldn't he see? “Morphine as needed.”

“He should be dead.”

“This is top secret stuff,” Stiles said. He seemed to be flicking in and out of the blackness around Derek. “You were briefed about it, right?”

“Some FBI agent told me this patient was a government agent. But that doesn't explain how he can tolerate so much morphine. And now his eyes are glowing cold blue like the Devil himself.”

“The Devil has a blue dress, not blue eyes,” Stiles snapped, before his voice turned cajoling. He took Derek's hand again. “Please, help him. Please. He'll be moved to the government facility tomorrow. Out of your hair. Just...for the love of God...he can't hold on much longer. Give him the shot.”

“Where are your parents?”

“We don’t have parents. Owww. GAHhhh.”

Derek realized he was crushing Stiles fingers. He tried to let go, but his body wouldn't obey him. Darkness smothered him. Claustrophobia triggered panic. Panic made him want to shift, run or fight. Another scream built in his throat. God the pain was unbearable. He jerked toward upright, vision clearing as his fangs descended. He saw the nurse plunge a needle into the port in his IV bag and, within seconds, he felt the tendrils of relief curling along his arm. Grateful for any escape from this nightmare, he still feared the drugs would undermine his natural healing. He tried to convey this to Stiles with his eyes. His arm wouldn't mend with tubing in it. Stiles broke their gaze, glancing down. Derek followed the line of his stare and tried to recoil. His torso looked like an enormous grilled sausage, skin split with meat boiling out of it. What the hell had happened to him? Why was he in a hospital instead of at home? His attention returned to Stiles, but before Derek could read anything in his face, the world started fading. He skidded down a long dark tunnel and back into his fevered dream. He was in the car, driving along, happiest day of his life. Except someone, somewhere, was screaming.

*********************************************************

“They won't release him in this condition,” Melissa McCall was saying when he next woke to the world. 

He heard the sound of tape leaving a roll and the snick of scissors. Then, he heard Stiles yelp in pain. The adrenaline response to that should have catapulted Derek out of bed, but all it did was clear his head a little more. He managed to open his eyes. They were covered again. 

“I told you only give him two fingers,” Melissa chided. “First, thing you learn working obstetrics. Talk to them like you're their mother, give them only two fingers.”

“Calling him baby hasn't helped much either. Oww! Fuck. Sorry. Sorry. Ow!”

“I have some Advil in my locker. But you should see the on-call doctor. I'm sure you have a fracture. You need this X-rayed.” 

“We have to get him out of here,” Stiles said, ignoring advice about his own health. “He can't heal if they keep treating him like an ordinary burn patient.”

“You'll need more than the FBI for that. You need a relative with undisputed rights of custody.”

“Well, Peter helped put him here. And nobody can find Cora. Maybe the Argents can whip us up some paperwork?”

“Shame he's not married,” Melissa said, moving closer to Derek. “A wife could check him out.”

Derek felt a tug on his IV and realized she was giving him his injection of Morphine. After pure opium, it was the safest anesthetic for his kind, natural and difficult to metabolize before it could take effect. It slowed down his shifting. It also muted his appetite. The nausea hit him quickly.

“Or a husband?”

“Who are you casting in that role? You are running out of actors.”

“My dad?”

“Your dad is the sheriff,” Melissa said. “Everyone knows him. I'm amazed more people don't recognize you. But you've grown up quite a bit.”

“I should never have put Isaac and Allison on guard duty,” Stile said. “But we needed someone close by who could help him heal. Oh, wait.” Derek longed to tear away his blindfold and see what Stiles was up to, but the lethargy from the shot permeated him. Still, he was soon able to get the gist of what happened next. Stiles fumbled about more than usual in an attempt to use his phone with his bandaged hand. “Hey, Danny? How you holding up, buddy?” he said, after a delay while he waited for someone to answer his call. “Good. Good. Look, I need a favor.”

When the fog lifted, again, Derek knew why. He felt Scott's energy pour through him and, for the first time, he had some real relief. Scott took as much of the pain as he safely could. And Derek's own healing processes kicked into gear. A new vigor surged along his limbs. He examined the room as his vision cleared. No more gauze around his eyes. His head had stopped spinning and he thought he might be able to speak. He definitely had questions. Ribbons and balloons festooned the bedside table area, and a very bewildered Danny gripped Derek’s hand. Derek could see and smell the poor guy's confusion. What the hell? 

“Derek?” Stiles said, with exaggerated sweetness. “Hey! Look who finally made it back to town. Javier.”

Danny glared at Stiles and Derek mouthed, “Javier?” 

“Yes, your loving, but very busy husband. Here to sign you out of the hospital.”

“I’ll need to see some ID,” a man in a suit said from behind Melissa McCall. 

“Everything seemed in order,” Melissa said, handing the man a file.

“You call this order?” the man said. “All of these people in a critical care room? Guards outside? The FBI? It is like some high school production of the X-Files. I want to talk to this man’s doctor.”

Derek heard a firm clicking of heels marching along the corridor. Lydia Martin arrived at the door in a lab coat and emerald green suit. His doctor was ready on cue. Derek would have laughed if he’d had any energy to spare. 

“Dr. Nikki James,” Lydia said, holding out her hand. “Neurobiology. Quantico. I want to assure you that I only have the best interest of the patient at heart.”

“This patient is critical. He could die in transit. The risk of infection alone is... No, I cannot sanction his release.”

“I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter. His husband has agreed to the transfer. A plane is standing by to fly Lt. Hale to our burn facility in Nevada. Your triage has been first rate, but your hospital isn’t designed for cases of this magnitude. We have state of the art equipment, designer antibiotics, and...well, the rest is classified. If you are concerned for patient safety, I will be with him every second of the journey. He is stabilized, correct?”

“I would like to see some…”

“Is he stable?” Lydia interrupted. The man glanced at Melissa, who nodded. “Very well then, I see no reason for you to delay our departure. Nurse, give him the injection. The sooner we finish this paperwork, the sooner I can get back to treating our brave soldiers.”

Stiles did an eye roll over the apparently improvised dialogue from Lydia. Melissa leaned close to Derek to whisper, “One more shot and you will be on your own.”

She injected the drugs straight into his arm. He'd noticed he no longer had an IV port. His puncture wound and bruises were already healed, but the burns looked just as bad as ever. Still, Scott’s intervention had helped him deal with the pain. The added juice meant he started metabolizing the drug immediately, making it less effective. A real biological tug of war started inside him. Instead of slipping back into his sweet dreams, he floated along in a misty twilight, still processing reality. As their little procession rolled out into the corridor, Danny and Stiles stayed close to him. Danny hissed the question that Derek had longed to ask. 

“Javier? Really? Why are all of your aliases taken from the Big Book of Porn Names?”

“Because it was that or Disney characters. You try coming up with a cast of thousands off the top of your head.”

“If this guy isn’t your cousin Miguel, then who is he?”

“Derek Hale, like it says on the chart.”

“The murderer?”

“Exonerated,” Stiles said, with a proper affronted lift to his voice. “He’s a mostly innocent person.”

“Mostly?”

“None of us are totally innocent these days, Danny,” Stiles said, just before the Morphine had its way with Derek and he slept.

*************************************************************

Derek surfaced again briefly to a shift in the rhythm of the heartbeat. He didn't try to move, but he opened his eyes. The room was dark, night plus heavy curtains on the windows. Stiles was close. Crying. He was crying. A giant hand crushed Derek's ribcage, making it impossible to breath normally. Stiles in distress momentarily overrode the burning agony of healing skin. Derek wanted to go to him, comfort him. But his body still wouldn't cooperate. He called up his night vision and found Stiles on the floor, sitting next to the bed. His head drooped like a cut lily left in a vase overnight. He had his eyes closed and his lips moved silently, as if he were praying. Was he praying? Derek wanted to ask, wanted to reach out and tangle his fingers in that lush hair. _I'm okay. I'll be okay. Don't worry. Don't cry._ But the bone deep fatigue wouldn't leave him. He listened for words, heard his own name and a plea. Please. Please. Of course, he would get better. He would do anything Stiles wanted him to do. That was pretty much a given. He concentrated on moving his fingers and was heartened when Stiles noticed the attempt and took his hand. 

“Derek?” Stiles said, staring blindly in the general direction of Derek's face.

He didn't have supernatural infrared, probably couldn't see Derek's eyes were open. Focusing all of his energy, Derek gave Stiles fingers the gentlest of squeezes. He didn't want to hurt him again. Stiles slumped forward, running his wet cheek long the back of Derek's hand. 

“You scared me,” Stiles whispered, his breath curling across Derek's wrist and into his palm. 

Derek knew he meant by nearly dying, not by moving his fingers. Neither of them stirred again for a long time. Stiles eventually fell into fitful slumber. His grip slackened, his cheek softened and drool joined the breath. Derek didn't mind. He just wished they could be closer. He focused on muting his own pain. The warm exhilations along his skin helped. They accompanied the heartbeat and soothed him. Near sunrise, he slipped away into better dreams.

The next time Derek opened his eyes it was mid-morning and a few nights from the full moon. He could sense the rising power rejuvenating him. That could be good or bad, depending on how much control he maintained. He didn’t recognize the room, but the sounds and smells told him he was in the Stilinski house. Someone was sitting with him. Someone completely unexpected. The man who might have been his brother-in-law had things worked out differently with Kate.

“Hey, awake at last? Does that feel as bad as it looks?” Chris Argent asked him. 

Derek tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. He moistened his lips, taking a moment to trace his tongue over the scar tissue on them. For the first time he wondered about his face. How badly had he been injured? Would it heal or scar? If it healed, would he look the same or be as unrecognizable as Peter? His eyes went to his chest, but he was covered by a sheet. Chris loomed over him, holding out a cup with a long bent straw. Derek jumped, startled by the stealthy footsteps of a hunter. It embarrassed him to be so vulnerable.

“Easy. Try a sip of this,” Argent said, steadying the straw for him. “I figured you might wake up as we approached the full moon. Deaton mixed some healing potion for you. We could hardly shift Stiles this morning.”

Sipping the refreshing beverage, Derek nearly choked on his questions. How long had he been out? What exactly had happened to him? Was Stiles at school? He managed to focus and complete the swallowing process. He'd never appreciated how complicated it was to drink through a straw. A lot of the muscles he called on appeared to be missing. Finally, he felt fortified enough to speak.

“Wh-wha-what," he said, taking about two minutes to get out his first word, "happened?”

“Oh, you took a hit, my friend,” Argent said, putting the glass back on the bedside table. “Salamander. Destroyed about a block of the warehouse district and would have lashed Stiles into his next life, if you hadn't stepped in front of him.”

“Don't...re-remember...”

“There's a mercy. Wish I could forget it.” Argent pulled his chair closer. Sitting, he said, “I've been in more than a few war zones and I never heard anything like the screaming, between you and Stiles. I had no idea that boy had so much rage inside him.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Argent said softly. Looking into the middle distance, he shrugged and added, “He killed it.”

“Stiles?”

Chris raised both eyebrows as he turned back to Derek and said, “With a tornado.”

Derek wasn't going to say Stiles again. He was beginning to sound like a broken record. Instead, he considered this alarming information. Stiles weilding that sort of power was dangerous. Derek tried to picture it in his mind, conjure up something like a memory. There was nothing in his head about salamanders or warehouses. The last thing he remembered before the hospital was stopping for gas and a soda on his way to this house. There had been some plan to intercept a package.

“Hospital?”

“Tell me about it. What a mess! The EMTs were on you before we could do much and Stiles went from badass boy wizard to musical comedy director in three seconds flat. The lies he told. Astounding. If he were my son, I'd have him in boot camp somewhere. They needed a relative. He became your brother. Lydia Martin was promoted to field surgeon. The whole operation became secret military maneuvers. Luckily, Melissa was on duty in the ER when they brought you there or we would have been screwed. I passed you off as a member of my squad, elite soldiers on a special mission. Flashed my FBI credentials and posted Isaac and Allison as a guard.”

“Danny?”

“Yeah, it was a production on the ground,” Chris said. “Constantly moving. I would rather serve under fire again than try to keep up with Stiles improvising.”

A swell of pride made Derek's breath hitch. He was ridiculously glad Stiles wasn't an Argent. Unchecked, his bond-mate was a force of nature, but Derek loved that. He couldn't imagine Stiles stifled by regulations. Even if he wouldn't mind seeing him in a starched uniform. He tried to smile, but grimaced instead. The skin on his face felt a few sizes too small. It was, also, nice to hear about Stiles giving other people grief for a change, usually he reserved his worst excesses for Derek. Though, this wasn't the first time Stiles had defended him with a barrage of words. He'd held off the police a few times in their acquaintance. The use of druid powers was more unsettling. Channeling inner darkness could go horribly wrong. And it didn't sound like Stiles had acted with any sort of care. 

“You want anything else?”

“Sleep.”

“Don't blame you there.”

“Bathroom?”

“I'm told you should go where you are for now. Sorry.”

Derek ran his good hand down his unburned side to his hip and found he was wearing adult diapers. How humiliating. Crap! Only not literally, thank god. Not yet. But, of course, probably some time during his convalescence, he'd been sponged down and changed. That opened up a line of thought he wished he could stop following. How long had he been incapacitated? Who had cleaned up after him when nature took its inevitable course?

“Melissa and Deaton,” Argent said, reading the question from his facial expression. 

“Mirror?”

“Not a good idea,” Argent said, wincing a little. His expression told Derek enough about his injuries to make a reflection unnecessary. “Not yet. But you're looking better. Just rest.”

For the next two days, Derek took his advice. He rested, waking to assorted indignities, but never to Stiles. Deaton helped him to the bathroom and so did Stilinski. Melissa gave him a sponge bath that embarrassed them both. He wasn't on solid foods, so mostly there was nothing happening with his digestion. Someone had removed the mirrors from the bathroom. Probably Stiles. It was a good idea, because it let Derek remember what he looked like before this happened. 

The morning of the full moon, he woke up ravenous. Not good. On the other hand, he could smell food close at hand. Listening to the sounds of the house, he knew Stiles was cooking bacon, steak and eggs. Derek heard him rattling around the kitchen. He raised his burned arm for inspection as he did every time he woke. It had flesh and smooth skin again. Though a webbing of scar tissue wrapped around it. His chest looked worse, discolored and pitted in places, like a rotting orange. But his muscles were solid and he had two nipples. And his lips felt smooth and fleshy to his tongue. He tried standing and tottered a little.

He had no idea where his clothes were. But he wasn't going into breakfast in a diaper. He walked to the bathroom, took care of his toilet and wrapped a towel around his waist. Good enough. He smelled like a dead dog. Charming. But humans didn't have sensitive noses. And he didn't have the strength for a shower. He needed food, or he might eat someone later. The walk to the kitchen took every ounce of energy he had, but he managed to make it to the doorway. He stopped there, leaning heavily into the door frame, afraid to step away from support. Stiles had his back to him. Derek watched him work for a minute or two, just enjoying the sunshine pouring in through the windows, and the domesticity of the scene.

“Can I have a plate of that?” Derek asked, after bracing himself for incoming hugs.

Stiles jumped and spun around. The spatula in his hand sprayed grease in an arc. “Shit. What are you doing up? Get back in bed.”

“I need food. Full moon tonight.”

“That's why I'm cooking,” Stiles said, as if there could be no other reason. 

As he turned back to the stove, Derek couldn't help noticing his braced finger. “You're hurt.”

“That's funny,” Stiles said, with no trace of good humor. “Can you make it to a chair without help?”

“Uh...yeah.”

“Sit down. Almost finished here.”

No hugs. Fine. Derek was more concerned about the chill to his voice. Stiles sounded...angry? Or in pain? Gathering strength for a push off the wall, Derek considered the tense set of those shoulders. Was it Derek's initial recklessness or the scars upsetting him? Probably a bit of both. Stiles was obviously exhausted. Barely holding it together, it seemed. Weeping one day. Furious the next. Derek wondered if his own weariness showed on his ruined face. Then, he wondered if he was actually repulsive. He tried to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the toaster. The distortion didn't help. He felt his face with his good hand. Definitely not handsome right now. Still, he was healing. That should be encouraging. And the full moon would speed up the process. Stiles had the plates filled before Derek managed his first step into open floor. While placing the food on the table, Stiles spotted Derek standing where he'd last seen him and grimaced.

“Oh, my God,” he said, “You can't make it, can you?” He dropped a handful of silverware in a pile on the table. Crossing the room to slip under Derek's good arm, he went on in a weary mutter. “Are you trying to kill yourself? Is that it?”

“Overestimated my energy.”

“And how fireproof you were,” Stile said, trying to shift him.

“More than you,” Derek said, refusing to move. 

His unblemished hand traced along Stiles' cheek, thumb and fingertips caressing. Stiles trembled and the air filled with the scent of his need. Derek turned into his body, aligning a kiss, only to have Stiles duck and jerk away. Derek felt the blow in his gut, like a dozen ring daggers. No hugs. No kisses. No warmth. Had their bond burned away with his skin? No it hadn’t, because Derek could still feel it. And Stiles had responded to his touch. This was pure stubbornness.

“My dad's home.”

“He's in the garage. I can hear him.”

“And your eggs are getting cold.”

It had to be the scars, Derek thought, making him too ugly to kiss, reminding Stiles of his broken body. But their bond wouldn't let Derek retreat from rejection with a broken heart. He used the last of his flagging energy to push Stiles into the wall and brought his lips down hard on that delicate mouth. Stiles yelped a protest and got more tongue for his trouble. He pushed feebly at Derek, obviously afraid of hurting him. One good shove would have been enough to send him sprawling. 

But Stiles couldn't take advantage of his weakness and within a second or two the energy signature in werewolf saliva worked its magic. Know this, it said. Recognize me. You are mine. The nature of the noises Stiles was making changed from outraged to enthusiastic. Eager fingers started pulling at Derek instead of pushing. The kiss became mutual. They merged into one. Stiles turned clingy, practically climbing up Derek's uninjured side. Needing more contact, he hooked a leg around the back of Derek's thighs, just as drunk on their bond as ever. Derek gave him everything he could muster, considering he had practically no strength left. He kissed Stiles on his neck, his lips, his earlobes, sliding fingertips along his skin. Stiles returned every caress in kind. Their heartbeats synchronized.

“Your dad is coming,” Derek said, close to an ear, knees buckling as he dropped toward the floor. “And I'm going to faint.”

“God. You fucker,” Stiles said, grabbing at Derek’s waist, but unable to check his weight. “You can't just force me to…”

“Yeah, I can,” Derek said, smirking happily despite his undignified collapse to a seated position. 

“I hate you so much,” Stiles said, trying to lever him to his feet again. 

“No, you don't.”

“I hope you choke on your breakfast.”

“So, someone must be feeling better,” the Sheriff said, from the door. “If you are back to wishing he’d die.”

“You could give me a hand, funny man,” Stiles said on a little growl. 

Derek grinned again, enjoying the fierce response. One thing about Stiles, he was always entertaining. And no matter how angry he might be, he still wanted Derek just as much as ever. Stilinski rounded to Derek’s other side and, working together, father and son managed to put him in a chair. Derek braced his forearms on the table. He sniffed the food. It had cooled, but still smelled delicious. Stiles slapped a fork and knife down next to his plate. 

“I’m late for school, again,” he said, while sandwiching together toast, eggs and bacon. Addressing his father, he went on with daily instructions, “Deaton will be here at two to prep the room for moonrise. Don't break the circle. He should eat meat later. There are two more steaks.”

“Glad he’s buying,” Stilinski said, loading food onto a plate for himself. Turning to Derek he said, “You know you’re buying, right?”

“Yes. Using your credit cards,” Stiles said, between mouthfuls of sandwich. “To pay for your upkeep and hospital care and rent. Hope you don't mind.”

“Rent?”

“It came due,” Stiles said. “Your lease ended.”

Derek nodded. “I should go home.”

“Put him back to bed,” Stiles told his dad. “Don’t let him try to leave. He can’t even stand up. I’ll be home after practice.”

“No,” Derek said. He peered up at Stiles eyebrows working to convey why both of them staying under the same roof was a bad idea. Derek hoped Stiles would read the worry in his expression and they wouldn't have to discuss this in front of the Sheriff. “You can’t stay here tonight. Get Argent.”

“I can’t stay in my own house?”

“Not until I know how much control I have,” Derek said, giving up on telepathy. “I should mend quickly once the moonlight takes effect. If I sense you close it might trigger other…appetites.”

“Too much information,” Stilinski said. “Stiles stay at the Argents. I’ll call Chris and set it up.”

“I have no say in this?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Derek said.

Just as Stilinski said, “None.”

Stiles glared from one of them to the other, his lips set in a stubborn line. Derek folded his arms and stared straight back at him. Eventually, Stiles saw reason or buckled under the pressure of the inevitable.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Try not to kill each other.

He dumped the remains of his food into the trash and threw his plate at the sink, like he was skimming a stone across a pond. The plate clattered along the counter, before tumbling over into dishwater. Derek found himself taking mental note of the unbreakable dishes. He’d been planning a move and would need a few things for his new apartment. Considering how much Stiles liked to cook, unbreakable dishes should be at the top of the list. 

“He’s been under some stress,” Stilinski said, after the front door slammed behind his son. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You saved his life. I can never repay that.”

“It wasn’t a conscious choice,” Derek said.

“This bond you have?” Stilinski guessed.

“Yeah.”

“Would he do the same for you?”

“Probably,” Derek conceded. After chewing and swallowing a hunk of meat, he added, “If I'd let him.”

“Of course, he’d run into fire to save Scott, too. Or me. So, I can't blame it all on you." He sat down opposite Derek at the table. “Are you going to heal? Will you look like you did before?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your Uncle? Peter, right? He didn't heal for years.”

“He was treated in the hospital. Nobody here to help him. Too many of the wrong drugs. He wasn’t the same, after. Though I think he’s always been psychotic.”

“He's psychotic?”

“Yeah. And alive. Feel free to shoot him on sight.”

“Good to know,” the Sheriff sighed. “Deaton has a way of controlling you, tonight? Some Druid spell?”

“Containing me. Keeping me in one area. Stiles can do that spell, too.” Derek had no idea why he mentioned this. “Has he been acting differently?”

“He’s been…worried. Frantic as first, then angry. Nearly fell apart on us that night, but snapped out of it. Stays up in his room on the computer. That’s fairly normal. But, I haven’t seen him crack a smile since it happened.”

“He’s closed down.”

“Can you…fix it?”

Derek’s eyes widened. “Me?”

The Sheriff sighed and said, “You. Yeah.” He threw a hand into the air, very much like his son might. “I give up, okay?”

“I can marry your son?” Derek said, his grin and the light dancing in his eyes making it a joke.

“No," the Sheriff said, doing a perfect double take. "You want to marry my son?"

"Seems a little redundant, frankly," Derek said, "but it solves the underage issue."

"Not for me," Stilinski said, his face like granite. Derek shrugged, as if he hadn't expected the ploy to work, and Stilinski's expression softened a tad. "But, I’m coming around to the whole idea of you. Someday. Not tonight. Or this year. I don’t like the age difference or you putting him in danger. But, I figure he found the danger first. And someone should look after him out there. He’s never going to call me. Not until it’s time to mop up the mess.”

“I'll look after him.”

“I can see that,” Stilinski said, taking a long moment to consider Derek's injuries. He held up the coffee pot with a question in his eyes. Derek nodded and drained his mug of water. Stilinki filled both cups. “And, last month when you came here for movie night?”

Derek snorted lightly, to show he remembered the day in question. “ _The Lone Ranger?_ ”

“Yeah, something from the Attention Deficit Collection."

"Crack!Tastic," Derek agreed, using the Stiles' terminology. "I had the Overture on a loop in my head for a week."

"Not as bad as _Empire Strikes Back_ for the 800th time, trust me,” the Sheriff said, taking a seat opposite Derek. “I watched you two together that night. Saw how you treated him. Saw how things stand."

"And?"

"You were careful not to push. And Stiles...” He sighed and paused in his thought process to take a bite of food. After he swallowed, he had some coffee, and then he went on with his assessment. “Stiles had a good time. He was happy. Like he used to be before his mother died. He shares things with you. Sometimes I can’t reach him. I try, but…” He shook his head. “His mother used to say he's an old soul. I never really knew what she meant until I opened my eyes to all this." They both focused on eating for a bit. Then, the Sheriff said, "He took you surfing.”

“That was a good day,” Derek said, smiling as he remembered reliving it in his drugged state. Seeing the storm clouds gathering in the Sheriff’s steady gaze, he added, “Not that good. Nothing happened. We just enjoyed the beach.”

“Something happened. I could see it in him when you came home.”

“You see a lot,” Derek said, almost to himself. He couldn't help but wonder what Stilinski would think about him after tonight. The Sheriff would most likely get a full-on werewolf experience. That was something few people appreciated in a potential son-in-law.

To Be Continued...


End file.
